“Did the Father mention what flavor porn?” Jay asked.
“Get out!” Todd screamed. Myrna came running in with the Kumcha Latta. “Get out!”
An older woman with short gray hair, glasses, and a black dress stood over She-Devil’s shoulder. “Tell Debbie Mama loves her,” she said, in a loud, Brooklyn accent. “She’s working too hard, but I’m very proud of her. But tell her to keep an eye on that middle one. She’s hanging out with the wrong crowd, that one.”
“Debbie?” I said. “Mama’s very proud of you, but keep an eye on that middle one. She’s hanging with the wrong crowd.”
“And no raspberry at the breakfast table—”
“Raspberry?” I asked. “Oh … BlackBerry! No BlackBerry at the breakfast table—”
Debbie the She-Devil blinked. First time.
“You’re crazy!” Todd screamed. “That’s it! I’m canceling your contract! Myrna, get me the Housewife boys! You will never work in this town again!”
I headed for the door, turning back to see She-Devil staring at me, silent as a carb-avoidant Buddha.
We scurried out of the administration building. Jay didn’t look at me until we reached the parking lot.
“So … people actually say that? ‘You’ll never work in this town again,’ ” I said. “Are you still hungry? We could grab a bite.”
Jay ripped the sunglasses from his face. He was covering up his lovely gray eyes with green contact lenses.
“I like the lenses,” I offered. “You look like Rihanna.”
“What is wrong with you?” Jay asked. “I told you not to flip out in there!”
“I’m sorry.”
“Do you realize that we’ve just lost our production deal? Your breakdown has just put us out on the street.”
“I’m not having a mental breakdown, Jay. I’m actually seeing dead people. They’re talking to me. I opened this portal, somehow—”
“Stop, just stop it,” Jay said. “Hannah, I know you’ve suffered. I know it’s hard. But I can’t do this anymore. I’m skipping lunch and looking for a job. I suggest you do the same.”
11
Arrested Development
I had just lost my best friend. I needed comfort. I needed reassurance. I’m pretty sure I needed Q-tips. I drove to the CVS pharmacy near my house, on Wilshire, a slice of drugstore heaven. It’s huge and spotless, bright and well stocked, and I’ve never seen anyone there that I know. In fact, I don’t know if I’ve actually seen anyone inside the store. I just love browsing rows of lip gloss and hair color and pregnancy tests and notebooks and cold medicines and highlight markers. And bags and bags of candy corn.
I had my little red basket on my arm, wandering up one aisle, down another, ignoring my vibrating BlackBerry. Probably Jay screaming at me, or my long-lost agent telling me to get long-lost. I wanted to feel like a normal human being who just needed ultra-moisturizing hair conditioner. I felt that could solve everything, if only I could mend my split ends.
My phone wouldn’t stop. I didn’t recognize the number, the area code was a 310—I was sure I’d forgotten to return a library book to the small Montana branch. But as it had only been a couple of months, and my husband had died, I let it go. I had the Dead Husband Card and was not afraid to use it, even for overdue books.
It kept buzzing. Finally, I answered.
It was Stephanie, the nursery school director. “Are you okay?” she asked. I pictured her freckles and red hair and sincere concern.
“It’s almost five. You never picked up Ellie,” Stephanie said. “I’m just checking to see if you’re all right.”
I ran out of the store, clutching my basket with life-saving shampoo, conditioner, and conditioning rinse. I even had John’s favorite razors, I don’t know why. I ran to my car.
Someone was yelling “Stop!” Someone in a red vest, with a CVS nametag pinned on his chest. I was already starting up the car. Who was this vested man yelling at?
Ellie had been waiting for me. For hours.
Her father leaves her. Her mother abandons her.
I put my car in reverse and drove over the store manager’s foot.
One thing I can say for the Santa Monica Police: They are extraordinarily polite. “May I cuff you, now, ma’am?” … “Are you comfortable in the backseat?” … “The temperature okay for you?” In fact, they are more like waiters than policemen. I remember screaming as they approached me, “I need to pick up my daughter!” as though Ellie had been marooned wearing only floaties in shark-infested waters, not rolled up in a comfy blanket, being fed Goldfish by a sweet, young nursery school director. The Youth of Today, Officers Campos and Johnson, sat me down at the curb and had me breathe into a paper bag. This is not my bright, shining moment, I thought, as I stared out at the rush-hour traffic on Wilshire Boulevard with a lunch bag on my face.
These cops were Justin-Timberlake-in-uniform cute. Campos had a baby face, abs of steel, oh, and a halo.
“You have a halo,” I gasped into the paper bag.
“A halo?” Campos asked. “No one’s ever told me that before.”
“Maybe you’re an angel,” I said.
“That’s not what my girlfriend says, but thanks,” Campos replied. First, there were the voices. Then, apparitions. Then messages. So why not auras?
Officer Johnson was six-feet-something of burliness—I’d peg him as Mr. July in the 2011 Santa Monica Police Department Calendar. His aura was purple.
“Does Johnson, here, have a halo?” Campos asked.
“Of sorts,” I said. “Does purple count?”
“I love purple,” Johnson said.
“It’s a beautiful aura,” I had to agree.
I was taken to the Santa Monica Jail, which should be rechristened the Frank Gehry Jail, because of its modern, angular architecture. I spent an hour and a half in an immaculate cell with bored teenaged gang members from SaMo High, picked up for fighting over sexting, and a Persian woman who’d ripped off twelve pairs of jeans at Diesel on the Promenade.
“How many jeans do you need?” I asked. The woman was highlighted, French-manicured, very 1995. She probably drove a wine-colored Bentley.
“They are very good jeans,” she said. “But too expensive. Is ridiculous!”
I had called Jay, but he didn’t answer. He was probably wearing his best women’s Levi’s, downing margaritas with Hidalgo at The Hideout on Entrada. I couldn’t blame him. Aimee roused herself out of bed and picked Ellie up from school immediately after I called. Chloe barely reacted when I told her I’d been arrested, like she’d been expecting it all along. The new NoMoMama.com topic practically wrote itself: What to wear to pick your best friend up from jail.
“Assault with a deadly weapon?” Chloe asked, after posting bail. “Theft? You stole Caviar for Blondes shampoo? Hannah, you’re not even a blonde.”
Campos, who’d been talking to a short, bald, serious-looking man in a crumpled suit, approached as we were leaving. He looked out of place here at the art gallery/jail.
“Did you want a copy of the police report?” Campos asked. “My supervisor was asking.” His halo was still glimmering.
“No,” I said. “I was there, I don’t need to see it.”
“You were there?” he asked. “When your husband was killed?”
“Oh,” I said. Oh my God, no. “No, no, I wasn’t talking about John.”
“We will find the guy,” he said. “The man driving the gardening truck that hit your husband. We’ve got good leads.”
“Oh,” I said, “thank you.” My knees buckled, and he caught me. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
After I recovered, Chloe walked me out of the station, into the night. The moon was high in the deep purple sky. The chill was telling me that Thanksgiving and Christmas were around the corner. The holiday season. Food, gifts, celebration.
I wasn’t ready. I doubt I’d ever be ready again.
Aimee had bought Ellie dinner, tucked her into bed, an
d then, as she was feeling ill, tucked herself into a vodka and Emergen-C. As Aimee and Chloe chatted over the demise of my character, I dragged myself into Ellie’s room and lay down next to her.
“I owe you better, Ellie,” I said to my sleeping girl. “I should just give you to someone who could raise you right. Like Jennifer Aniston or Courteney Cox. They seem nice … and they have excellent hair.”
Later, I crawled into my bed and stayed there for the next week, with one thought keeping me company: My baby deserves better than me.
I woke up early a few mornings later to find Trish standing over my bed.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, gasping for air. I rolled over. “You’re not supposed to come into my room.”
“You’re making the rules now?” Trish said. “Get up. This behavior is a bit dramatic, even for me. And I was an actress—back when it mattered.”
“I’m being berated by a dead person,” I said, catching my breath. My chest felt sore. “What’s with my breathing?”
“You’re giving yourself pneumonia,” Trish said. “It happens to a lot of widows. That’s why you need to get up and about.”
“Good morning, sunshine,” Jay said, appearing at my doorway. I hadn’t heard from him since we parted ways in the network parking lot. He walked right through Trish.
“Ooh,” Trish said. “I hate when that happens. It’s demeaning.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “He doesn’t look where he’s going.”
“Please, please stop doing that,” Jay said. “It’s bad enough that we’ve now been blackballed at every network. Even the yet-works have heard about it.”
“My first husband was a poof,” Trish said. “We were kids, only married a year. God, did I love that man.”
I put my pillow over my head.
“I’m done with the pity party,” Jay said, grabbing the pillow. “Done. You’ve been in bed a week. You are getting up and taking Ellie to school.”
“He’s right, you know,” Trish said. “What’s that scent? It’s musky …”
“Aramis,” I said to her. “He’s trying to bring back 1985.”
“Who are you talking to?” Jay asked. “Please, Hannah. Please stop.”
“Tell Ellie I’m sick. Every part of me is sick. Even my fingernails. I can’t breathe, but I don’t care. I want to die. The hairs on my arms have lost the will to live.”
“Such drama,” Trish said, looking at her nails. “Suddenly, she’s Theda Bara.”
“Sweetheart, I’m not going to placate you anymore,” Jay said, pulling the covers back. I caught a whiff of his cologne. Jay was always ready, just in case sex broke out on the street somewhere. “Two words: Alexander McQueen. He stayed in bed ten days after his mother died, then got up and hung himself. You’re on day seven.”
“That’s a rare thing, that kind of love,” Trish said. “I hope you appreciate this fella.”
“Why can’t you both just leave me alone?” I said. “Just let me go.”
“Honey, I got news for you. You’re not a diva, you’re no Marilyn Monroe. You’re not even Alec Baldwin. You’re a mom who’s had horrible shit happen, who has to man up and raise a daughter. Because if you die and I have to raise Ellie, which I’m happy to do, she’s going to end up looking like Cher.”
“Indian Cher?” I asked, wheezing. “Just a suggestion.”
“Nineties Cher,” Jay threatened.
“He wouldn’t dare,” Trish said.
Jay pulled the curtains open. Light flooded the room.
I sighed and swung my legs over the side of my bed. When I looked back, Trish had disappeared.
Jay reached out and took my hand. “Come back to the living.”
“What are the benefits?” I asked him.
“Love,” he answered.
Jay ran water into my bathtub, felt the water with his hand, then turned to me. “Take it all off,” he said, rolling up his sleeves. “I’m not looking.”
I disrobed, slipped off the socks I’d been wearing for a week, and sank into the warm water. I was naked in so many ways, I didn’t care anymore.
“Tilt your head back,” he said. When Jay was young and Sylvester ruled the airwaves, he’d cut hair in a shop in West Hollywood.
“I haven’t had my hair done in …”
“I’ll be your hairipist.” He poured shampoo into his palm, rubbed his hands together, and massaged it into my scalp. “Now, breathe, baby. I’m not leaving you.” Tears spilled down my cheeks. There was so much love in this house, in this tiny bathroom, in the hands of a gay man who wanted nothing more than to settle down with one person for the rest of his life. And that person would probably be me.
The doorbell rang. Ellie’s little feet scampered toward the door.
“Hi hi!” I heard Dee Dee Pickler call out. “Is your mommy here?”
I wrapped a towel around my body and headed to the living room. (Spice cowered before my nakedness. I tried not to take it personally. It’s not like we’re dating.)
Dee Dee wore a tennis skirt that showed cheek when she turned, and pink wristbands. “Honey, I heard all about your arrest. Don’t worry, I haven’t told a soul.”
“You play tennis?” I asked, ignoring her. Already, my chest was starting to feel better.
“Never. I wrangled an invite to the Riv, the Riviera. Do you know how many seventy-year-old widowers play tennis?”
“So you came by to …”
“I don’t want other Realtors getting wind of your meltdown,” Dee Dee said. “I’m trying to keep it out of The Mirror.” The Santa Monica Mirror was the local paper that wrote up every local petty crime with a humorous slant. Shit.
“It’s all a misunderstanding,” I said.
“We have to find you something really cute.”
“I’m never selling Casa Sugar,” I insisted.
“Who’s selling what?” Jay asked, emerging from the kitchen into the living room.
“Oh, Jay,” Dee Dee said. “My new business card …” She handed Jay a pink card.
Jay took a look at it, reading, “Dee Dee Pickler, Realtor-Life Couch.”
“Life Couch?” Jay asked.
“It’s a misprint. So … what happened with the job?” Dee Dee asked me.
“How do you know about that?”
“Everyone knows. That homeless guy, Bob, who panhandles at the Starbucks on 15th and looks like Bob Dylan but definitely isn’t, because I made out with him and he tasted like goat ass?” Dee Dee said. “He’s concerned! You know Santa Monica. There’s no privacy. It’s Wisteria Lane with Priuses. If you want privacy, move to Beijing.”
“I’m on temporary leave,” I said.
“That’s why you’re bathing after noon,” Dee Dee said. “Look, honey, I grieve for your situation. I do. It must be horrible, losing a husband. I’m trying to learn, what’s the word? Em … em …”
“Empathy,” Jay said. “Do you mind if I sit down for this? I wish I had popcorn and a Red Bull.”
“I want to be there for you,” Dee Dee said. “The market is dropping off like Zsa Zsa’s limbs. I can get you the best price. I already have a buyer—deep pockets, short escrow, don’t ask me how I do it. Okay, go ahead and ask.”
“This house is all I have left of John,” I said.
“Exactly,” Dee Dee said. “You need a fresh start. Honey, in six months, who knows where the market will be?”
“I’m not worried.” But I was worried. I lived in Worry, USA. Not even a nice place to visit.
“We’re all worried. Why do you think I give seminars on the side? I mean, besides the fact that I’m learning that it’s good to help others. Really, I’m just covering the Tijuana Botox at this point.” She flashed Jay her horse veneers.
“Listen, honey. You’re how old? Fifty?” Dee Dee asked me. “I’m forty-five. I’ve blown every Persian surgeon—I love how that rhymes—and I still only landed one whale. Well, he wasn’t a whale, more like a guppy, the loser. You’re competing agains
t twenty-year-olds and rich divorcées. You have to take care of yourself, sister.”
“I don’t want a man,” I said. “Especially not a sperm whale.”
She checked her fake Rolex. “Gotta run. I’m taking my baby daddy back to court. Meghan wants to jump and she’s my only way to get in with the Spielbergs. Don’t wait to call me—you could be looking at Jasmine Gardens. And I want to see you at R+D on Thursdays or the Huntley any night. Luke Wilson hangs out there, you know.”
She waved and was out the door.
“Isn’t Jasmine Gardens the trailer park under the 10?” Jay asked. “You and Ellie are moving in with me before you move to that freeway exit, my dear.”
“Just the other morning, I saw a flyer …” I said. “Coyotes, in big letters, with a picture of a small dog, Oliver RIP …”
“I see that every week in this neighborhood,” Jay said.
“It read, “If you run into a coyote, wave your hands, stomp your feet, and yell,” I said. “Next time, I’m going to try that with Dee Dee.”
Later that night, Trish informed me she’d almost been arrested for shoplifting three weeks after her husband, Mel, died. They’d been married forty-seven years. His death wasn’t unexpected. He was old, she was old. He’d had bypass surgery. They lived each day to the fullest, meaning they watched Bob Barker on The Price Is Right, Mel tended their rose garden, which swallowed up the front lawn, they shared evening walks, classic movies at the Aero, meals at Izzy’s Deli.
So, Mel passes away one quiet morning in their bed. The night before, he asked that she open a window for his spirit to pass. They have the burial service, an intimate, austere ceremony. Trish was ready for this, she told herself. She cried, she missed him, but she knew, above all, she had been one of the lucky ones. She plays mah-jongg with the girls. She takes the trash cans out to the curb herself. She drives. She shops for groceries and cooks for one.
Trish was caught shoplifting at Pavilions. She’d left the store with her grocery cart to get the Pavilions card from Mel, who used to always wait in their Charger, listening to Vin Scully do the Dodger play-by-play as she did the shopping. The store manager knew Trish. He understood and let the incident go. But afterward, Trish was too embarrassed to return to the store. For years, she’d drive to the Pavilions miles away, on Lincoln. “My shame was greater than my sadness, Hannah,” Trish told me. “Don’t let that happen to you.”
The After Wife Page 11
